


I Once Was Blind

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blindfolds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Let's try it blindfolded</i>.</p>
<p>On Porthos' next birthday, they try a new routine that turns out to be something Porthos can imagine doing on a regular basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Once Was Blind

“You know, one year, you’re going to have to decide how old you are,” says Aramis, quietly near his ear.

The words are intimately close as the blindfold is tied securely around his eyes, the thick material blacking out the whole of the room. This is a request a year old and Porthos’ fingers twitch, expecting his pistol so he can shoot the melon from off Aramis’ head, but the gun never comes. Porthos searches out for something with his roaming hands, but inevitably, someone grips him by the wrists and holds him close.

He drags in a deep breath, recognizing the smell of sharp cologne and cheap drink, which means Athos is holding him firm. “Keep still, Porthos. Aramis thought of a birthday treat for you that doesn’t involve exploding fruit.”

“I like the exploding fruit,” Porthos complains, but the blindfold is firm on his face and Aramis always does have good ideas. “Is this why the tavern was so empty when we came in?”

“Not empty,” Aramis’ voice corrects, circling Porthos by the sound of his steps. “Selective.”

The hands slide away from his wrists, replaced by more delicate fingers. The smell has changed, too, to something more floral and feminine. Porthos laughs, deep and warm, because he knows that smell. It’s Yvette, one of his favourite barmaids in the place. Porthos is grateful that his hands haven’t been bound, because he’s more than happy to reach his hands around and grope her behind. “Happy birthday to me,” he murmurs, standing there as she peppers his lips and cheeks with light kisses, smearing painted lipstick over his own by the taste of it when he licks his lips.

He breathes out when her warmth disappears to be replaced by the spicy perfume of Mariana, the Italian regular who drinks as well as Athos and dances like her feet are afire. 

Porthos’ birthday has never been so good. He hasn’t drunk nearly as much as last year, having learned his lesson. The last thing he wants is a repeat of last year because he doesn’t think nearly being hung is a good birthday tradition to begin.

“Happy birthday, Porthos,” Mariana whispers, squeezing his bottom. “Spend your treat wisely.”

He reaches out for her, but stumbles forward. Where Mariana had been standing, there’s now empty space. In fact, the chatter of earlier has died down. It seems as though there’s no one left in this bar and Porthos reaches up to remove the blindfold, but is stopped by a firm hand he knows very well. 

“Not yet,” Aramis warns. 

“Why not? Who else is in line?”

“Athos. D’Artagnan, I believe now is your time to leave,” Aramis says quietly. Porthos isn’t sure what’s happening now, but he hears the door closing firmly. By his count and the sounds around him, there can’t be many people left. With Athos and D’Artagnan gone and the lack of carousing drunken revelry around him, Porthos wonders if this is a new birthday treat.

Porthos lets his hand fall to his side, though Aramis has yet to let go. 

“Pick an age for me,” Porthos says, when he thinks that maybe they’re alone. He’ll wait for confirmation, but for now, he believes that the whole tavern is his and Aramis’ alone. “I picked this day. You pick my age.”

“Certainly not twenty-one,” Aramis muses. “You’re a handsome man, Porthos, but you hardly look a spring chicken these days. Not too north of thirty, though I think you’d look quite dignified sporting a few white hairs.” Porthos gives a guttural moan when Aramis’ lean fingers slide through his hair, the curls of it brushing around the curling locks. “I think perhaps I should call you twenty-eight.”

“Why?”

“Because I am,” Aramis replies. “Did you like your birthday treat? Yvette and Mariana were very pleased to get your attention.”

They’re still here, though, and Porthos is still blindfolded by his own bandanna. Suddenly, the press of a glass bottle is pressed against his lips. Porthos reaches out, fumbling to wrap his fingers around the neck, taking a long swig back of the rum. It’s fine liquid; finer than what he’s used to and he desperately reaches out to wrap a hand around Aramis’ neck, when he’s sure where the other man stands.

He pushes the bottle into Aramis’ palm. He knows where Aramis is standing, now, he knows the steady pace of his breath, and he knows the warmth of Aramis’ hand in his hair. What he doesn’t know is why he’s still blindfolded.

“It’s not the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

“Oh?” Aramis replies.

“I liked our little routine,” Porthos confesses, because he had. He liked watching Aramis strip down to his shirt and unbutton it for fear the melon might stain it. He loved watching Aramis’ cheeky confidence as he put himself on display and he truly enjoyed the trust that flowed through Aramis to do such a thing.

Aramis removes his hand from Porthos’ hair, sliding his thumb just under the knot of the bandanna. “In case you were wondering, I’ve paid for the tavern to be emptied. Athos has placed locks upon the doors and now guards them,” he informs him. “I apologize in that it has taken me a year and _several_ disastrous affairs, but I thought of a new routine for us.”

“You have?”

“Yes, and I even incorporated a blindfold, just as you asked for last year.”

Porthos laughs, not knowing what they’re up to, but he’s willing to go along with a little mystery and intrigue. “Is Yvette hiding behind the bar?” he asks, waiting for soft fingers to touch his again, but conscious of the fact that when Aramis’ calloused fingers slide over his palms, his heart skips a beat.

Those fingers can load a musket faster than anyone Porthos has ever met and yet are gentle when sewing up wounds. Porthos’ body is littered with Aramis’ work and in a way, he’s always felt bound to the other man. In the last few years, circumstances have brought them closer together and Porthos would be a fool to say aloud the thoughts he has summarily dismissed about his brother in arms.

These are the very same thoughts that are resurfacing now with aplomb, given how close Aramis stands. 

“Mis,” Porthos murmurs, reaching out for Aramis much the same as he had with Yvette, gripping his hips with strong hands to haul him in closer. “You swear we’re alone?”

“On my beautiful face.”

“Take the damn blindfold off.”

“But you wanted it so very...!”

“Take. It. Off,” Porthos warns, growling out the words. He stands patient, waiting for Aramis to undo the fine work of knotting the bandanna. Aramis had taken over the duty of braiding the piece of fabric each morning, his deft fingers weaving and winding the material and Porthos had always suspected it a reason for them to be in close proximity. Now, he knows this is true and he’s vindicated and pleased, at once. When the thick fabric falls away, the lamplight of the tavern makes his eyes hurt for a moment, but soon he sees Aramis in the soft glow of the torches, looking at him in such a besotted way that Porthos immediately knows that look.

It is the look Aramis gives a woman before she is subject to his charm.

“I want to see you for this,” Porthos says, wanting to make that very clear. He tightens his grip on Aramis’ hips, hoping to leave marks, and brings him in for a kiss that harbours no delusion for being kind or gentle.

This is a kiss of possession. This is a mark of ownership and claim. 

Porthos kisses Aramis as though he must learn how to breathe through this new manner, hauling Aramis up easily and backing them into a wall, sending dust and bits of straw from the ground scattering into the air as Porthos works them further into the corner, setting Aramis’ arse onto a table to support them as Porthos chases after him to deepen the kiss, refusing to yield a single inch of space between them as he sucks on Aramis’ lower lip, winding his fingers through Aramis’ hair in order to ease his tongue into Aramis’ mouth.

“Hair,” Aramis mumbles, though the word is obscured.

Porthos merely growls his response, which Aramis should know means that he doesn’t give a damn about what Aramis’ hair looks like. He’s been waiting to do this for longer than he can quantify because half-thoughts, suppressed dreams, and worries can’t add up to a number. Finally, Porthos needs to breathe and relinquishes his proximity to stare at how rumpled Aramis looks and how wonderful it is.

“How about we try again,” he suggests heatedly, the rum in his belly making his blood warm and the phantom touch of Aramis’ lips on his making his cock stir. 

“Why?” Aramis lazily murmurs. “Not enough for you.”

“Nah,” Porthos drawls. “I’ve had better. Thought I’d better give you a chance to make up for your mediocrity.” It’s a horrible lie, but it’s worth it when Aramis actually pins him to the wall with a near-crazed look in his eye, as though Porthos has just committed blasphemy. 

“You’ll regret saying that.”

“Make me.”

Porthos is pleased to say that Aramis tries his very best to do exactly that.

They don’t make it out of the tavern until the rooster begins to crow in the early hours of the morning. By then, Porthos has straw in many unmentionable places, Aramis’ hair has been well and truly ruined, and between the both of them, they bear enough marks in unseen places to paint a picture.

“We ought to send Athos and D’Artagnan home,” Aramis muses, running his fingers over Porthos’ bare chest. “Though I’m sure Athos has long ago fell asleep and left the watch to our young Gascon.”

“Mm,” Porthos replies, words having escaped him since earlier in the evening when Aramis had brought Porthos off with his lips and tongue. “Will this be a regular birthday, then?”

“I think it would be a shame to have to wait for your birthday,” Aramis says, bluntly. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can find a way to work with discretion, secrecy, and the knowledge of the consequences should we be discovered. As far as Athos and D’Artagnan know, we’ve been drinking all night and talking of your past conquests. Do you want this to be more than a birthday event?”

Now that they’ve given over to touch, Porthos finds that his feelings and his desires have been unleashed and now threaten to flood him. He knows the consequences of being found out and knows them to be worse for him given the colour of his skin, but the selfish part of him wants what’s being offered to him. 

“Convince me tomorrow,” Porthos finally says.

“It is tomorrow, Porthos.”

“In that case, buy me first round tonight. And then you can take me to bed and try and earn yourself a little pride. Honestly, Aramis, I thought you’d be better, given your...”

“You liar,” Aramis cuts him off, but his laughter is a warm and heady thing. When accompanied with the sure, swift kiss, Porthos knows that he has been a very lucky birthday boy, indeed. Maybe next year, they ought to try the blindfold _and_ some ropes. 

They have to keep things fresh, after all.


End file.
